Chapter 155: Madeline
I close the notebook slowly, but my pulse is still racing. I double-checked, triple-checked—those numbers are real. Still, they don’t feel real.
I tuck everything away with hands that are just barely steady. Then I climb the stairs to the wheelhouse, boots thudding up the metal steps. My breath fogs in the cold air, but it’s not that that’s making me cold now.
Inside, Jake and Reid are mid-conversation, leaning on either side of the helm.
“—and then he actually said he could free-dive with a seal pod without a wetsuit,” Jake was saying, scoffing as he shook his head. “Said his ‘body’s adapted’ or some shit.”
Reid snorts. “Jesus Christ. Is Kyle trying to die, or is that just a bonus?”
Jake smirks, still watching the sea. “Honestly, at this point—”
They both stop talking when they see me.
Jake straightens. Reid watches me with a subtle frown that tightens when he notices my expression.
“What’s wrong?” Jake asks first.
I step farther into the room, notebook hugged against my chest. “Something’s wrong with my readings,” I say. “But I’m not sure what it means yet.”
That gets their full attention.
Reid’s brow furrows. Jake steps forward. “What readings?”
I flick to the page from a few days ago, then the one from last week. “The temperature of the water. Look—here, and here.” I flip to today’s entry, then hold it open for them to see. “Today’s is significantly higher. I ran the test twice to make sure. Same result.”
I start rambling before I can stop myself. “Could it be a thermal current? Maybe one moved closer to shore? Or—is there something volcanic in this area? It could be geothermal, right? Or maybe there’s a—”
“Wait,” Jake cuts in. “What number did you say?”
I repeat it, voice quieter now.
He turns sharply, scanning his screen, scrolling through the ship’s ambient air data. Then he mutters, low and sharp, “Fuck.”
“What?” I say quickly, heart lurching.
He doesn’t answer me. He just looks at Reid and says, “Look at the delta between sea surface and air.”
Reid glances over his shoulder toward the window, expression going cold. “Fuck.”
“What?!” I say again, louder now.
Reid turns to face me fully. “Did you learn how warm, moist air over water interacting with cold, dry air above it can create atmospheric instability?”
I nod. “Yes—yes, that instability can form storm cells.”
Jake picks up the thread, voice fast and clipped. “If there’s enough moisture and instability, you get vertical cloud growth. That means cumulonimbus—thunderstorm clouds. Then you get rising warm air, downdrafts from precipitation... the whole thing feeds itself. Fast.”
“And wind shear just makes it worse,” Reid finishes.
I freeze. “You’re saying—there’s a storm coming?”
Jake cusses under his breath and turns back to the helm, fiddling with the radio. “I don’t get it, though. The weather reports were clear. Harbor didn’t report anything. We saw at least half a dozen boats leave this morning.”
He grabs the radio and calls it in.
“This is the Vigil, requesting updated weather status for Northhaven Bay and surrounding water.”
The voice on the other end crackles through a second later. “We were just about to issue a warning—came out of nowhere. Thermal activity offshore spiked, barometric pressure dropped like a rock. Visibility’s dropping fast. All vessels advised to return to port immediately.”
I feel my stomach plummet.
The twins exchange a look, and I hate how serious they both suddenly look. Because when they look worried? It means it’s bad.
Jake turns to me. “Go get Liam. Now.”
I nod and bolt from the wheelhouse, heart pounding like a war drum in my chest.
I run back up the stairs to the wheelhouse, barely a step behind Liam, who’s stomping ahead of me with urgency written in every line of his back.
He bursts into the room without waiting for the door to close behind us. “So I’m guessing this is about how the entire back half of the fucking boat looks black as hell?”
All of us turn in unison to follow where he’s pointing—his thumb aimed straight over the stern.
And—God. He’s not wrong.
The sky behind us is a jagged, angry wall of black, like a curtain pulled taut across the horizon. Sharp-edged clouds roil in slow motion, the contrast with the light still holding in front of us making it all look ten times worse. It’s like the ocean itself is holding its breath.
And for a moment—I do too.
I swallow the panic crawling up the back of my throat.
Jake mutters a curse under his breath and immediately turns back to the helm, shifting course. Reid grabs Liam’s arm and starts rattling off instructions.
“Bring in the equipment first—anchor’s priority. Then the fenders, then secure the midship lines. I want everything strapped by the time we dock. Got it?”
Liam, to his credit, doesn’t ask questions. Just nods. “Got it.”
Reid claps his shoulder once, hard, and Liam bolts down the stairs.
I press myself against the back wall of the wheelhouse, trying not to get in anyone’s way.
Jake grabs his phone and dials a number before pressing the speaker button. “Hey— Hey Charlie, you there?”
There’s a brief static before her voice bursts through—sharp, high, panicked. “Jake?! Oh my God, are you still out?! It’s getting bad—like, really bad. The wind’s picking up, and they said it’s gonna hit harder soon—”
“Hey—breathe,” Jake cuts in, calm but firm. “I need you to go home, okay? Don’t wait for us. Lock the doors, check the windows, and stay inside. We’ll be back soon.”
There’s a long pause. Then, softer, “Be safe.”
Jake doesn’t answer that part. Just lets the phone click off.
The tension in the room sharpens. I glance sideways and see Reid looking down at his phone, screen glowing blue-white in his palm.
He curses, low, sharp. “Finn just texted.”
“What’s he saying?” Jake asks, voice tight.
“He’s asking if we’re okay. Says Sloane’s already on her way back—storm cut her time off short.”
Of course it did. I try not to let my anxiety show, but it feels like ice has settled between my ribs.
None of this was in the forecast. Not the storm. Not the temperature spike. Something in my gut twists like a warning bell.
The ocean has been trying to tell us something for weeks.
And now, it’s finally yelling.